


if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it

by Veniae



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Gen, I'm Sorry, Post-Episode 64, Speculative, a what if scenario that causes me physical pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 19:12:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7983010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veniae/pseuds/Veniae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scanlan can't change the past, but he can change memories of it. And if you squint a little, that's almost the same thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Better Angels](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7813834) by [eponymous_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eponymous_rose/pseuds/eponymous_rose). 



> spoilers for episode 64
> 
> shoutout to eponymous_rose and their fantastic story [Better Angels,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7813834) which inspired this disaster. that fic is absolutely fantastic, if you haven't read it, do yourself a favour and give it a shot (protip prepare tissues)

_Ten minutes._

He can change ten minutes’ worth of someone’s memory. It’s that simple, really. A flick of the hand, enough concentration, and _ta-da._ No one is the wiser.

This poses a question, however: _which_ ten minutes?

He could pick the ten minutes of murky morning grey, right before the searing white disc of the sun rolls above the horizon. It has rained the previous night, languidly but persistently, and Whitestone is a mass of jagged edges against a background of diluted ink. It’s bleak and nondescript--a morning not worth remembering.

Or maybe it’s the silhouette tearing its way through the sunrise that he should make them forget: glistening white and growing in size until it completely hides the sun from view.

After the realisation hits, there are ten minutes of mute terror, laced with hope. _He doesn’t see us, surely, maybe he’s just scouting the terrain again. The barrier’s still up, he can’t get through!_ The people, already worn out from the day before, are now debilitated by panic as they blindly make their way underground. They trip over each other, slide and sink into the muddy ground, claw at the walls in an attempt to get farther, faster. Ten minutes, seventy-two leathery flaps of a giant pair of wings, closer and closer.

He could change that memory, too.

Another contender: Vorugal, diving through the magic barrier and into Whitestone. His claws leaving grotesque scars across the walls, tearing roofs off and hurling them into the sea of people in the streets. A sudden burst of sounds from the center of the square, where everyone’s gathered; it twines together into the high-pitched anguished scream of a wounded animal.

He could make that scream end ten minutes earlier.

Some time later, they have stumbled their way into the castle’s courtyard. He could call it a last stand--and would, if he were just a bard composing an ode about someone else’s exploits--but he’s part of it. It’s little more than a cornered quarry’s desperate attempt to delay the inevitable.

There’s plenty of room for improvement in these particular recollections, if he’s got to be honest. The sickening crack of bone when Vax’s wings snap under an onslaught of talons and send him slamming into cobblestone and rubble. The dry _snap_ of the Sun Tree splitting in two, followed by Keyleth’s choked cry. Percy’s gun jamming (a _click_ followed by a stifled _cough_ ), Vex interrupting her determined rhythm of _whoosh-thunk_ when she reaches for another arrow and comes up empty.

He could edit any of these moments. It’s the outcome that he can’t fix.

They lose, and they run. He could fix the memory of that run, fueled by mindless fear, bodies burning with exhaustion. He could erase the image of the ancient white dragon looming behind them as they clung on to each other, praying that Keyleth could phase them away from this plane before they were buried under an avalanche of ice shrapnel.

That, or the realisation that settled into their bones after they stepped into the watercolour dusk of the Feywild: they wouldn’t be seeing anyone who they left behind again.

There are a lot of memories Scanlan can change. Yet, when his family looks at him, and beneath the rage and fear, he sees a silent but absolute  _This is all on you_ , he knows he only really has one option.

Scanlan has come to think of himself as rather brave, but he’s not above this cowardice.

Ten minutes aren’t that much, when you really think about it. Not enough to change an important thing, anyway.

He immobilises his companions before the initial post-planeshift numbness has faded. Goes to each of them. Changes a detail.

In his new version of events, he thinks before speaking. When he opens his mouth back in ravaged Draconia, the name _Whitestone_ doesn’t come bursting out.

The trick works, just as he expected. No one knows to blame him for everything that happens. They don’t hate him, and they don’t leave him. They can look at him without seeing the reason for the destruction, the victims, their inevitable defeat.

The trick works, and only Scanlan remembers what really happened. It is only the hatred in his own eyes that he has to bear. He learns to avoid mirrors.

He learns that if he tries hard enough, it almost feels like _his_ memories are the fake ones.

  


**Author's Note:**

> so uh... yeah. thank you for reading?? 
> 
> you can find me [@veniaebot](http://veniaebot.tumblr.com) if you want to shout at me about this
> 
> now if you'll excuse me i'll go ruminate over the frigid doom


End file.
